Dumb Love: WhWhWhWhy?
by lipsofanangel2015
Summary: Sherlock is a genius. But one thing he can't comprehend, other than the solar system, is women. But when he meets Selena Seim, someone he could relate to in nearly every way, will he learn of her mysterious and dark past? Based during "A Study in Pink"
1. Chapter 1: Remember the Name

**CHAPTER I: Remember the Name**

_This is ten percent luck_  
_Twenty percent skill_  
_Fifteen percent concentrated power of will_  
_Five percent pleasure_  
_ Fifty percent pain_  
_And a hundred percent reason to remember the name_

* * *

"3 SUICIDES AS OF TODAY! WE'VE GOT THREE SUICIDES!" yelled a nearby newspaper boy. The repetitiveness would have gotten to me if it weren't for my current predicament.

"I hate this so much," I muttered to myself, sitting on a bench alone at the local park. Convenience-store-bought cappuccino and newspaper in hand, dark shades, you'd think nothing could stop a girl like me… except you "can't get anywhere with the darn global economy in the way." I hated it. Escaping the United States and my parents for a foreign land seemed exciting enough. Attending Oxford instead of Harvard seemed less bland. I was an adult anyway, it was my choice. It was my choice to run away from the life I was used to.

But I was a pretty naïve young adult. I just didn't think about what I would do after graduate school. Back then, I thought figuring out how to get money to pay the student loan AND the rent could wait. I thought I still had the support of my parents, but I guess putting me on their phone's Auto-Reject list counts as being disowned. Sure, I got a worthless MBA. But it's not like some top-notch company's willing to post an ad in the Job Search section. All you see there are jobs for caregivers.

_How boring_, I thought, sipping the last bit of my cappuccino and throwing both that and the newspaper into the nearest trash bin. I couldn't imagine myself as a caregiver, or in any position in the medical field. Neither was I born to be flipping someone else's burger, or trimming someone else's £5mill rose garden. The internet wasn't helping either. Craigslist was a pain in the ass. I seem to find a decent job when someone else picks it up.

Damnit. I hate it when I get overly passionate about something.

"Selena? Selena Seim?" someone yelled from a distance behind me.

Turning around, I saw a portly figure running towards me, along with a man a little less skinnier than him. The skinny one had a limp and cane with slightly grayed hair, the other had a full head of color with the exception of a major balding area on the top. I found it weird and tried my best to conceal my surprise when they finally reached me. It wasn't normal for anyone to remember or call out my name. I was probably one of those people you glance at for a second, my face being tucked away in the dim recesses of one's brain.

Slightly disheveled and gasping for breath, the two took a moment in my puzzled state to get some strength back. In between pants, the portly one said while extending his hand for a shake "It's me, Stamford. Mike Stamford. I was your guidance counselor back at Oxford."

"OH! Mike! Yes, hello." I said, shaking his hand.

Mike went through this short reminiscing phase. "How long has it been since you sat in my office? Six to eight years? I got fat. Heard you've been in the business of searching for money. What happened? Didn't you go for that MBA?"

"Yeah. I went for it alright. Big help it was." I said with some slight sarcasm, raising my eyebrows at the man with the cane. "Who's he?"

"Oh this is Dr. John Watson. Went with me to Barts during my younger years. Invalided from Afghanistan." At this, "Dr. John Watson" and I shook hands and exchanged formalities briefly. "Anyway, what have you been doing?"

"I've been looking for a job more recently. Stupid economy. Can't find anything that's decent in the papers or online. I'm also looking for a flat mate. Can't afford the apartment I'm living in now, rent has skyrocketed thanks to my whole damn problem. Can't afford going back to Los Angeles. Can't afford to face my parents. I'm stuck in a rut." I said, unleashing my tirade of wining at Mike. Back at when he used to work at Oxford, he was probably the best guidance counselor there. He still is willing to lend an ear today.

John looked up a bit. "Really? I need a flat mate too."

"Haha. You two aren't the only ones looking for a flat mate," chuckled Mike.

I raised my eyebrows even higher. "Hmmm? Who's the other one?"

* * *

"Nice place…" I murmured, walking into what seemed like a chemistry lab. Except it was bigger than the average college or high school facility. There was already another person in the room: supper skinny, late twenties to his early thirties, dark suit. He was experimenting with something under the microscope, maybe an intellectual type. I think I was the only one to really pay attention to him, and he seems like an interesting person.

John walked around a bit, looked through some of the cupboards. "It was different in my day."

"You have no idea," muttered Mike.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." asked the gentleman.

"Well, what's wrong with the landline?"

"I prefer to text."

"Sorry, it's in my coat."

Awkward silence…

Finally John piped up. "Ah here, use mine."

"Oh…errr… thank you."

More of an awkward silence…

"These are a couple of friends of mine. John Watson and Selena Seeeiiim…" Mike drolled on, feeling like he should fill in the gaps of conversation with his exaggerated pronunciation of my last name.

Nodding at my direction, the man started texting. I was expecting some more of that awkward silence. I wasn't expecting him to actually talk to me. About… them. No one does that.

"How are your parents?"

"…Sorry?"

Ignoring me, he looked up at John this time. "And you? Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"…Afghanistan-"

"My parents are perfectly fine, thank you-"

"-How did you know about Afghanistan?"

John and I had some overlapping babble coming from our confused mouths (Mike, apparently, was having a hilarious time watching our facial expressions). In the meantime, a girl walked in with a mug of joe. She had light brown hair, probably same age as me, and had this friendly feel. I figured we could be friends if I talked to her.

"Ahhh, Molly. Coffee, thank you… What happened to the lipstick?"

"It wasn't working for me."

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too… small… now."

"…Okay…" Molly sighed, and walked out the door a bit flustered. The man made sure that she'd gone before he went back to his little interrogation.

"How do you feel about the violin?" he asked, both John and I this time.

John still looked dumbfounded. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on… and would that bother you? Potential flat mates should know the worst about each other."

I turned on Mike. "You told him about us?" He knows I don't like it when people talk about me. Makes me wonder what they've said.

"Not a word Selena. Not a word on both of you."

"Well, then who said anything about flat mates?" asked John, shifting uncomfortably.

"I did. Told Mike I must be a difficult man to find a flat mate for. Now here he is, just after lunch with two old friends. One is clearly coming back from military service in Afghanistan and the other in a bit of a patch family-wise. Wasn't a difficult leap." He said, grabbing his coat and scarf.

John decided to repeat his question, the one about how he knew about Afghanistan, but our potential flat mate completely ignored him. He told us about this flat he found, a place he had his eye on. Mentioned he was looking for three, since even though he gets a discount it's still over what he, and maybe two people alone, can afford. John and I were to meet him there tomorrow at 7:00 PM. Said something about a riding crop in the morgue…

"Is that it?" John asked.

Right when our flat mate opened the door, he looked exasperated at having to turn around and answer even more questions.

"We've only just met, and we're going to look at a flat," the soldier continued.

He raised his eyebrows. "Problem?"

"We don't know a thing about each other. We don't know where we're meeting; we don't even know your name." I proclaimed, stepping in.

Walking up to me and staring me down, he said "I know you were born and raised in Los Angeles, and left there pursuing a MBA at Oxford. I know you have an estranged relationship with your parents. Possibly because in your childhood they've dictated every single thing you were to do and interfered with your personal life, also because you supposedly grew up as their biggest disappointment. A lot of bickering went on with them. You have an older sister. You refuse to associate with her because she's the spitting image of what you could have become."

"Yes, thank you for explaining my emotional and traumatic childhood in front of the security cameras."

"And you," he twirled around, turning on John. "I know you're an army doctor and have been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him. Probably because he's an alcoholic. More likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid," he said, nearly walking out the door before he popped in again.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221b Baker Street," at which he winked us. "Afternoon Mike."


	2. Chapter 2: Viva La Vida, Part I

**CHAPTER II: Viva La Vida, Part I**

_I used to rule the world_  
_Seas would rise when I gave the word_  
_Now in the morning I sleep alone_  
_Sweep the streets that I used to own_  
_I used to roll the dice_  
_Feel the fear in my enemies eyes_  
_Listen as the crowd would sing:_  
_"Now the old king is dead long live the king!"  


* * *

_

Stare at watch. Stare at cell phone. Contemplate on yesterday. Stare at watch. Stare at cell phone. Contemplate on yesterday. Only yesterday I had a brief, and quite awkward, meeting with the arrogant Sherlock Holmes and already I'd agreed to see the new flat with him. Not to mention that just the other day, I met an invalided army doctor by the name of Dr. John Watson that was also looking for a roomie, and my old Oxford guidance counselor Mike Stamford became a teacher at Barts.

And to add to the awkwardness of the little congregation we had yesterday, Sherlock proceeded to blab to the surveillance cameras about exactly WHY I needed a guidance counselor (aka the emotional turbulence of my childhood) and about John's private life. And where am I now? In front of 221B Baker Street, waiting for the two of them to show up. I wasn't sure if I could trust him, but I'm desperate to find an affordable place to live in. Besides, living by myself isn't exactly fun. This guy keeps life interesting. Besides, Mr. Holmes is kind of cute…

_Wait… what?_ I did not just think that. Maybe I should stop contemplating and more on phoning my old landlady about my plans.

"Hello? Ms. Gerner? Today's my last day," I said, twiddling with the ends of my hair.

My old landlady began drolling on in that thick sophisticated-rich-girl accent. "…Oh is this you Selena darling? You've found a new flat already?" she asked, pronouncing "darling" like "DAW-LING."

"Mhmm. I'm visiting it today, and depending on whether or not I like, I'll stay there. I just have to remember to pick up my clothes, toiletries, etc."

"Selena darling, you know it was nice having you as a tenant. I do enjoy our chats on how modern society revolves around the propaganda that's distributed by the media. Those were some thrilling debates."

"Yeah… I'll miss your home baked cookies, Grandma."

"OH! You kidder! So… who's your new flat mate?"

"I've got two."

"Two?"

"Yeah. One's a 'Dr. John Watson. He's from the military…"

"Sounds dashing. You know what they say about men in uniform, right?"

"Ms. Gerner, he's at least TEN years older than me," I responded, emphasizing the "ten."

"Oh sorry. Who's the other?"

"A 'Sherlock Holmes'."

"My my, such an unusual name for a girl…"

"Ms. Gerner, Sherlock is a MAN," I practically yelled into the receiving end.

Ms. Gerner, apparently unable to comprehend the idea of a man being named "Sherlock" had fits of hysterical laughter interchanging with attempts made to say something that sounded similar to "No shit, Sherlock!" After waiting a couple of minutes for the old lady to calm down, I gave up and hung-up on her. Just in time, Dr. John Watson came 'round from the corner. He was still using that cane. Right after that, a cab slowed down in front and out came Sherlock Holmes.

And then I realized that John should be the one to ride a cabbie.

"Hello."

"Hi, John. Hello, Mr. Holmes?"

"Sherlock, please," at which we all shook hands with each other.

John started, "Well this is a prime spot. Must be expensive."

"Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, gave me a special deal. Owes me a favor. A few years back her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

"So… you stopped her husband from being executed?" I asked, rather slowly.

And he said, grinning, "Oh no. I ensured it."

While John and I looked at each other in surprise, an old lady (assuming its Mrs. Hudson) came out and welcomed the three of us in.

* * *

"This is a nice place…" I murmured, stepping into flat. The walls were green, specifically green wallpaper. Pink curtains, bookshelves that were already filled up, and a fireplace at the center. There was clutter and moving boxes everywhere, which was good for me. Shows me that Sherlock was just as eager to move in as I was. There was also a skull peeking from the fireplace's mantle, and it seemed just as intent on staring me down as I was intent on keeping my distance away.

John meanwhile was nodding at practically everything, "This could be very nice… very nice indeed."

"Yes, yes. I think so too. My thoughts precisely. So that's why I already moved in-"

"-Soon as we clean and tidy things up…"

Followed by an awkward silence, it was only broken when Sherlock decided to "tidy" things up by sticking a knife into a couple of mail by the fireplace. After a bit I finally got the gusto to ask him what the hell was that skull doing there.

"Oh it's a friend… Well… I say friend."

"What do you think Ms. Seims? There's another bedroom upstairs… if you'll need two bedrooms with these gentlemen," Mrs. Hudson asked with a mischievous glint in her eye.

"Err… I'll take the second bedroom."

"All good, then. And Dr. Watson?"

"Of course. We'll be needing three bedrooms, won't we?"

"Oh don't worry! There are all sorts 'round here. Mrs. Turner next door, she's got married ones!"

Behind Mrs. Hudson's back, I made a huge grin at John, whom he seemed to want to slap off my face. He was in the motion of sitting down in one of the chairs when he noticed Sherlock turning on his laptop. "I looked you up on the Internet last night."

"Anything interesting?"

"I found your website, 'The Science of Deduction'."

"And what did you think?"

"…You said you could identify a software designer by his tie, and an airline pilot by his left thumb?"

"Yes. I can read your military career in your face, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone. I can read Selena's whole life story on her Blackberry, by her actions, her words, her clothes, and her vocals."

"And how, exactly, can you do that?" I asked. But he ignored me because he was looking out the window. He ignored me. Again. Am I invisible to this idiot?

Mrs. Hudson, since Sherlock _always_ listens to her, said "What about those suicides then, Sherlock? Thought they'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same."

"Four. There's been a fourth. This one's a bit different this time," he mumbled. Right about the same time, another guy came up the stairs and into the flat. He looked about the same age as John. But taller.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't come and get me if you knew there was something different."

"You know how they never leave notes?"

"Yeah?"

"This one did. Will you come?"

"Who's on forensics?"

"…Anderson…"

"Anderson won't work with me."

"Well he won't be your assistant!"

"I NEED an assistant."

"Will you come?"

"Not in the police car. I'll be right behind."

"Thank you…" and the policeman walked out.

And if you were a neighbor living below us, in a couple of moments you would hear thumps (Sherlock jumping), muffled yelling (Sherlock being happy), and the sound of something gliding across the floor (Sherlock spinning like a top). He was excited, he was enthusiastic… actually, no words can begin to explain the weird expressions that were forming on his face. Maybe he's a madman. Maybe he's psychotic. Maybe he's a sociopath.

"Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food."

"I'm your landlady dear, not your housekeeper."

"Something cold will do. John and Selena, have a cup of tea. Make yourself at home," he said, walking out the door. "Don't wait up."

Mrs. Hudson exasperatedly went into the kitchen to make some tea. "Look at him, dashing about! My husband was just the same." Then she nodded at John, "But you're more of the 'sitting-down' type I can tell. I'll make you that cuppa, you rest your leg."

"DAMN MY LEG!"


	3. Chapter 3: Who Owns My Heart?

**CHAPTER III: Who Owns My Heart?**

_Who owns my heart? _  
_Is it love_  
_Or is it art? _  
_Cause' the way your got _  
_You body moving_  
_It's got me confused _  
_And I can't tell _  
_If it's the beat or sparks_  
_Who owns my heart?_  
_Is it love_  
_Or is it art?_  
_You know I wanna believe_  
_That we're a masterpiece_  
_But sometimes_  
_It's hard to tell_  
_In the dark_  
_Who owns my heart?_

* * *

"Sorry, I'm so sorry. It's just that sometimes this bloody thing…" John muttered, while Sherlock's skull and I stood gaping at him from across the room.

Oh but did Mrs. Hudson mind? "I understand dear. I've got a hip."

"Cup of tea would be lovely, thank you," he said, grabbing a hold of the newspaper.

"Just this once dear I'm not your housekeeper,"

"A couple of biscuits too, if you got 'em."

Next thing you know, Mrs. Hudson's dashing out of the door. "Not your housekeeper!"

"What's in the news?" I asked.

"Besides those suicides? Nothing. Took up the whole page."

"You're a doctor…" said the low voice of (who else?) Sherlock Holmes to John Watson, just standing there by the door. It was like he was standing there the whole time, which he wasn't. Like he'd gone invisible and reappeared, which I'm pretty sure he can't. "…As a matter of fact, you're an army doctor. Any good?"

"Very good."

"Seen a lot of injuries, then? Violent deaths?"

"Mmm, yes."

"Bit of trouble too, I bet?"

"Of course. Yes. Enough to last me a lifetime. Far too much."

"And you…" he said, turning towards me, "…You have the eyes of a hawk."

I had no idea what he was getting at. "…And?"

"Your observation skills are quite astounding for someone in the line of business. All a business man should care about is the figures he or she makes, that is if you're CEO and you have others to calculate for you. Normally someone in forensics, investigating, or police work would need that. But you do."

"And you want me to help you out with the fourth suicide?"

Sherlock turned back to John again, but not before I saw a slight smile on his face and heard him say "Smart girl."

"Want to see some more trouble, John?"

"Oh God yes," upon which we all made a dash out the door. John, just realizing that he asked Mrs. Hudson for tea and biscuits, yelled "Sorry Mrs. Hudson, I'll skip the tea. Going out."

"All three of you?" she asked.

"Possible suicides. Four of them. There's no point sitting at home when there's something FUN going on!" Sherlock replied.

"Look at you all happy. It's not decent."

"Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs. Hudson, IS ON!"

* * *

Sherlock was staring into his phone, and I have no idea what he's looking at.

John was staring at the back of the cabbie's head, like there was something interesting on it.

And I was fiddling with my thumbs while looking at the radio buttons up front. I honestly wondered when the Sherlock-Selena-John awkward silences would end. I just realized that I was ALWAYS in the middle of them. Like how I'm in between these two characters, right now in the cab.

John looked at Sherlock for a bit, and then glanced away.

I tried entrancing myself with the cabbie's cappuccino, which was sitting in all its delicious glory up front.

Sherlock looked testily at John, then me, then his phone, then back at John and me. Finally he decided to break the spell. "Okay, you two have questions."

"Yeah, where are we going?" asked John.

"Crime scene. Next?"

This is where I piped in. "Who are you? What do you do?"

"What do you think?"

"Private detective, except the police don't go to them."

"I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world, I invented the job."

"So when they got no where else to go, they go to you?"

"Precisely."

"But the police don't consult amateurs," John pointed out. Sherlock looked like he wanted to smack some sense into him.

"John, when I met you for the first time yesterday I said 'Afghanistan or Iraq'. You looked surprised."

"How did you know?"

"I didn't know. I saw."

"Your haircut. The way you hold yourself says 'military'. Your conversation as you entered the room said 'trained at Barts' so army doctor. Obvious. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp is really bad, but you don't ask for a chair. You stand, like you've forgotten about it. So it's at least partly psychosomatic, assuming that the cause of that injury was traumatic. Wounded. Suntan. Afghanistan or Iraq."

"You said I had a therapist."

"You've got a psychosomatic limp. Of course you've got a therapist. Then there's your brother. Your phone, it's expensive. Email enabled, preplanned. You're looking for a flat share, you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift then. Scratches. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. No man would treat a luxury item like that, it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy."

"The engraving…"

"'Harry Watson'. Clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be your cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. So brother it is. Now Clara. Who's Clara? Engraving suggests it's a romantic attachment, hence the phone says wife not girlfriend. The model's recent but it looks only six months old. Six months old and he gives it away. If she left him, he would have kept it. People do for sentimental reasons. No, he left her. He gave the phone to you, that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheaper accommodations, but you won't go to your brother for help. Says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife, maybe you don't like his drinking."

"How can you possibly know about the drinking?"

"Shot in the dark. Good one though. Scuff marks around the phone. Every night he plugs it in to charge, but his hands are shaking. Never see these marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them."

"Uh huh. Now what about me?" I asked.

"Oh now you're more interesting. Born and raised in Los Angeles. You have an American accent. It's not a New York accent, or a Southern accent, but a beach-goers accent. Next part's a bit trickier. I'm surprised you haven't said 'dude', because that would've narrowed it down considerably. Two popular beach states, Florida and California. Today you used your cell phone to call someone before John and I got here. I briefly saw that it had the background of the logo for the LA Lakers. No person outside of Los Angeles would show support for the Lakers, so Los Angeles, California it is."

"Oxford and my 'hawk eyes'?"

"Oxford was obvious. I knew Mike Stanford as well as I do to know who he considers his colleagues and friends. In case you haven't realized it, he has NEVER joked around with you back at the laboratory. Instead he listened to nearly everything you said and reassured you when you thought he told me about you. That shows that YOU had or still have some insecurities, and that shows that HE knows the quirks of your personality. Guidance counselor of Oxford, his previous job. Only way you two could know each other would be if you went there for college and entered his office on more than one occasion."

He continued, "When you walked into the lab and into the flat I noticed one thing, you were observant of the details most people aren't. You pay attention. You took in everything you saw and absorbed it. Let's compare you and John for a second. You noticed me and classified me as an interesting and intellectual person, and you're quite right about that. John was busy reminiscing on his days at Barts. In the flat you noticed my friend/pet skull about three minutes before John. Shows you have at least 10% higher intellect than the average person, which I admire."

(insert me blushing and John scowling)

"Right… now how did you know about my family?"

"You're a young lady in her late twenties, looking for a flat mate for a seemingly long time. By now your whole family would've piped up, but obviously you're still here and not back in Los Angeles. That means something's up. Possible disagreement? Did they disown you? Are they ignoring you? Yes, yes, and yes. Your mannerisms are old fashioned, like when you addressed me as 'Mr. Holmes'. Shows you've been brought up with some sense of proper etiquette. Now your Facebook profile picture says otherwise…" Sherlock said, waving his phone at my face.

(insert me blushing even more)

"YOU LOOKED ME UP? Wait… have you been looking at my profile for the whole FIVE MINUTES before this conversation started?" I yelled, looking between his amused face and his phone. Was that what he was silently staring at during the beginning of the ride? My profile picture was of me, of course. But I was standing at the bar with a friend of mine, us smiling towards the cell phone's camera and pointing our red party cups up to the ceiling. It would have looked perfectly normal if I wasn't wearing a crop top and short shorts.

I must remember to smack myself in the head later for uploading that. And Sherlock says I have 10% more intelligence that the rest of mankind.

Sherlock pocketed his phone, still grinning, and continued, "Your Facebook profile picture gives the impression that you can be a wild child at times. Common Western culture states that youngsters have a tendency to rebel against superiors around their teenage years, obviously creating a strain on your parents. How extreme your life became around that time, I haven't figured out yet, but there IS conflict."

"Then what about my sister?"

"Your parents supposedly disowned you, right? Means that you aren't worthy of the family name. 95% of the time, parents have another child that actually does live up to their standards. Remember that you don't communicate with the rest of your family, either. It's a trend: sibling rivalries tend to hurt more when you two are of the same gender. Therefore, female sibling who's accomplished more than you. In your parent's eyes, of course. John, you were right."

As if in a deep sleep the whole time, John spoke up suddenly. "I was RIGHT!… Right about what?"

"The police don't consult amateurs."

Awkward silence…

"That was amazing." I said, slowly, like I was taking my time and tasting the words.

Sherlock looked surprised when he heard that. Don't know why. "You think so?"

"Of course, it was extraordinary! Quite extraordinary…"

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off."


	4. Chapter 4: Maneater

**CHAPTER IV: Maneater**

_Maneater_  
_Make you work hard_  
_Make you spend hard_  
_Make you want all of her love_  
_She's a maneater_  
_Make you buy cars_  
_Make you cut cards_  
_Wish you never ever met her at all_

* * *

Later on we were at the scene of the crime. Sherlock was apparently the only one who knew what to do, what was going to happen, and what he himself was going to do. John might have been at a crime scene before, but that would have been a wrong assumption considering how he looked wearily at all the police cars. As for me, never been at a crime scene either. Never seen a dead body, never stolen anything, never did a breaking-and entering. Closest I ever got to going to juvenile prison was ditching PE class. I had too much of a boring childhood to be caught up in a murder case... Unless you counted the time I had to help out in "the family Empire."

"Did I get anything wrong?" asked Sherlock.

John replied, "Harry and me never get along. Never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce. Harry is a drinker…"

"Spot on then. I didn't expect to be right about everything."

"'Harry' is short for 'Harriet'."

"Harriet's your sister…"

"Now what am I suppose to be doing here?" John asked, only to be ignored.

"Sister! There's always something… How about you Selena? Anything wrong?"

"My Facebook profile picture was from my college years. I haven't been on Facebook for a couple of years already, so I've never got around to changing it. You know I've matured a lot more since then! But yes, I did fight with nearly everyone in the family since my teenage years. Mostly about how my grades could be higher, when they were perfectly fine. 'Bout which career I'd end up in, which clothes I was to wear, how I was to style my hair. Nearly everything. I said I wanted to go out of the country, to Oxford, to runaway from them. From everyone, really. They gave me the tuition for four years, money for the plane trip, and that's it. Never spoke to me again, I never talked to them. Funny enough, they'd have the money to support me when it came to paying the rent, but I got a hunch that asking them for help would end up badly." I tried to explain casually, concealing how exactly my parents did get the money.

And Sherlock did something similar to all those twirls he did back at the flat. "Yes! Nearly everything right!"

"Hello, Freak," said a lady behind the tape to the ecstatic detective.

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Why?"

"I was invited."

The lady asked again, this time more impatiently. "Why?"

"I think he wants me to take a look," Sherlock retorted.

"Well you know what I think, do you?"

And randomly Sherlock decided to literally sniff around. "Always Sally… and you didn't make it home last night."

Once John and I moved forward to go under the tape, "Sally" came back into police mode and clearly pointed out to us that there was an ongoing investigation and no civilians were allowed.

"Colleagues of mine, Dr. John Watson and Selena Seim. Dr. Watson and Ms. Seim, Sergeant Sally Donovan. Old friends."

Sally snorted, "A colleague? Now how do YOU get a colleague?" Then her smile suddenly faltered and she started to look back and forth at Sherlock and me, before finally asking me, "Did HE follow YOU home last night?"

"Um, no. Sherlock maybe it would be better if I stayed outside…" I muttered.

"No!" he insisted, raising the tape so John and I could get under.

"Freak's here. Bringing him in," Sally talked into her walkie-talkie, as the three of us followed her into an apartment when we were momentarily stopped by a man who looked at Sherlock as if he was a cockroach he wanted to stump his foot on.

"Ahhh… Anderson. Here we are again," Sherlock drolled.

"It's a CRIME SCENE. I DON'T want ANYTHING contaminated. Are we clear on that?"

"Quite clear… And is your wife away for long?"

"Oh don't pretend you worked that out. Someone told you that."

"Your deodorant told me that."

"My deodorant?"

"It's for MEN."

"Well of course it's for men! I AM wearing it."

"So is Sergeant Donovan."

In the background John and I were doing our best to conceal our giggles, considering how it's a crime scene. But then again, I was waiting for Sherlock to whip Anderson into shape since the first time I heard the forensics specialist's nasal-y voice. And let's face it: John and I couldn't picture Anderson and Sergeant Donovan together. She really is too good for him.

"Oooh, I think it just vaporized. May I come in?" asked Sherlock.

Anderson tried catching up with us as we went in the apartment. "Now look, whatever you're trying to imply-"

"I'm not implying anything. I'm sure Sally came over for a nice little chat and just happened to stay over… And I assume that she scrubbed your floors going by the state of her knees," Sherlock said innocently. Thankfully Anderson decided he was wasting his time and left the three of us alone.

He led us to a room with Detective Inspector Lestrade already there. Sherlock handed over two sets of plastic cover-ups to wear when we walked in. While putting it on, I noticed how he didn't have to wear one.

"Who are these two?" Lestrade asked.

"They're with me."

He asked more persistently, "But who are they?"

"I said they're with me," Sherlock growled.

"So where are we?"

"Upstairs. I can give you two minutes," Lestrade warned us when walking up the stairs.

"May need longer."

"Her name's Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her."

The room the murder victim was in was amazing. It was old, and clearly abandoned. Some of the wallpaper had already started to rip off; even some parts of the walls were missing. The floors had creaks in them; the curtains looked like they haven't been dusted in ages. The door hinges look rusty; the edges of it bitten away by termites. It was one of those houses where you look at it for one second, and you already feel creeped out by some unseen force. The place reminded me of the Haunting of Hill House, the house that sucks up its victims and rots their brains with hallucinations.

There goes my overactive brain. First it freaks out over my job search, and then it makes an analogy between Hill House and this rundown apartment. Next thing you know I'll be-

"Selena?"

Time to wake out of my revere. "Hmm? Yes Sherlock?"

"You think too loud."

…_What?_

"Oh. Um. Sorry… I'll think quietly… now…" I muttered.

Awkward silence…

This time Sherlock rounded on Lestrade. "Shut up!"

"I didn't say anything!"

"You were thinking. It's annoying," he said exasperatedly.

Sherlock began walking around the murder victim; touching her coat, poking at her umbrella, examining her jewelry, everything.

"Got anything?" Lestrade asked.

"Not much," Sherlock lied, checking his phone for something. I could tell he lied. He found everything about John and I. Wouldn't make any sense for him to not figure anything out of a random murder victim.

"We know she's German," a familiar nasal-y voice came from the doorway. Now I begin to understand why Sherlock hates him so much. He's always butting in at the wrong moments.

"_Rache_. German for 'revenge.' She could be trying to tell us something."

_No duh, Anderson!_

"Hey, um," Anderson nodded at me, leaning against the door panel. "If you got any free time later on tonight… my wife's out of town for a week…" he started.

"You're MARRIED," I yelled disgustedly.

But he just shrugged. "I know. That's why I said 'my wife's out of town for a week'. So, how about it doll face? You and me?"

"Yes, thank you for your input," Sherlock growled, slamming the door into Anderson's face.


	5. Chapter 5: Viva La Vida, Part II

**CHAPTER V: Viva La Vida, Part II**

_It was the wicked and wild wind_  
_Blew down the doors to let me in._  
_Shattered windows and the sound of drums_  
_People couldn't believe what I'd become_  
_Revolutionaries wait_  
_For my head on a silver plate_  
_Just a puppet on a lonely string_  
_Oh who would ever want to be king?

* * *

_

"So is she German?" I asked Sherlock. Despite the fact that he just made a fail attempt to hit on me, he did bring up a good point.

He snorted, "Of course she's not. She's from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night before returning back to Cardiff. That was obvious."

"Sorry? Obvious?" John said.

"What about the message?" asked Lestrade

Sherlock looked at us from across the room, "Dr. Watson and Ms. Seim, what do you think?"

"What? About the message?" Apparently John was still out of it.

"About the body. You're a medical man."

Lestrade muttered exasperatedly, "We have a whole team outside."

"They won't work with me."

"I'm breaking every rule letting YOU in here."

"Yes. Because you need me," Sherlock pointed out.

"…Yes I do… God help me…" Lestrade groaned.

This time Sherlock asked more impatiently, "Dr. Watson and Ms. Seim?"

"Go do what he says. Help yourself," said Lestrade. Then he walked out the room and had Anderson keep everyone out for a couple of minutes.

"Well?"

"What are we doing here?" asked John.

"Helping me make a point."

I whispered exasperatedly, "We're supposed to be helping you pay the rent!"

"Yes but this is more fun!"

"Fun?" I nearly yelled. "There's a woman lying DEAD."

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper," Sherlock grinned.

Sighing, John and I did our specialties according to Sherlock: him doing whatever people in the medical industry do, and me observing the body. It only took a couple of moments for John to declare, "Asphyxiation. Probably passed out and choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. Could've been a seizure. Possibly drugs?"

"You know what it was. You've read the papers," I muttered, circling around the body.

Detective Inspector Lestrade interrupted us, "Sherlock, I said two minutes. I need anything you've got."

"Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person going by her clothes and guessing in the media going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Traveled from Cardiff today. Intended to stay in London for one night-" Sherlock started.

"-Her suitcase." I whispered, to no one in particular. A woman traveling from that far would need a suitcase. At the bare minimum an overnight bag. _Where is it?_

He looked up, "What?"

"Sorry nothing." I honestly wasn't used to getting someone's attention that fast. Besides I need to think more.

Narrowing his eyes a bit, Sherlock continued, "She's been married for at least ten years. But not happily, she's had a string of lovers. None of them knew she was married."

"Oh for God's sake! If you're just making this up…" Lestrade muttered.

"Her wedding ring, it's ten years old at least. The rest of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside, means it's been regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. So who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover, she'd never sustain the fiction of staying single for a long time. So more likely a string of lovers. Simple."

"That was brilliant," John and I said together.

Lestrade was still skeptical. "Cardiff?"

"It's obvious isn't it?" asked Sherlock.

John shrugged while I raised my eyebrows, "It's not obvious to me."

"Dear God. What's it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring…" muttered Sherlock. "Her coat is slightly damp. It's been in heavy rain for the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London for that amount of time. Under her coat collar is damp too. She's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her left hand pocket but it's dry and unused. Not just strong wind, it's too strong for her to use an umbrella. Now Selena," he began, turning towards me. "What did you say before?"

"It's not obvious to me?"

"Before that."

"That was brilliant?" I asked, getting more and more confused of what he's asking for by the minute.

Sherlock impatiently replied, "No, no, before THAT."

"Her suitcase…?"

"Exactly. Selena mentioned her suitcase. We know from the suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight so she must've come a descent distance. But she can't have traveled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius and that travel time?" at which Sherlock pulled out his phone and flashed it before our eyes, "Cardiff."

Unknowingly I found myself blurting out again, "That was fantastic!" before he turned on me again.

"Do you know you do that out loud?"

"Oh. Um. Sorry, I'll shut up."

"No no. It's quite alright," Sherlock muttered, a bit red in the face… Wait? Is he blushing?

Lestrade butted in again. "You two keep on saying something about a suitcase…?"

"Yes, where is it? She must've had a phone or an organizer. Find out who 'Rachel' is."

"Oh so she was writing 'Rachel'?" asked Lestrade.

Sherlock snapped, "NO. She was leaving angry notes in German. Of course she was writing 'Rachel'! But why did she wait until she was dying to write it?"

"Now how do you two know that she had a suitcase?"

Time for me to take over on the observation squad. "Look at the back of her right leg. Those tiny splash marks aren't present on the left. Something's blocked off contact between the mud and her skin. There aren't many other things a woman drags along behind her when traveling except a suitcase or overnight bag. Small marks, small bags, so it's an overnighter. Lady's clothes conscious, so most likely it matches her. A shade of pink."

"Yes now what have you done with it?" Sherlock asked Lestrade.

"There wasn't any case."

"…Say that again?"

"There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase."

Next thing you know, Sherlock's running through the hallways and down the stairway, yelling for a pink suitcase. Unfortunately we had to follow. "SUITCASE! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?"

Lestrade yelled, "Sherlock, there's no case!"

"They take the poison themselves! They chew, swallow the pills themselves! There are clear signs even you lot couldn't miss 'em," he yelled back at us, running down the stairs.

"Oh yeah thanks," John muttered. "AND?"

"It's murder. All of them. I don't know how. They're killings, not suicides, KILLINGS!" and then he clapped his hands together. "We've got ourselves a serial killer. Love those! There's always something to look forward to."

I yelled back at him, "Now why are you saying that?"

"The case. Now come on where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was here and they took her case. So the killer must have driven her here, forgot that the case was in the car."

John piped up, "She could've checked into her hotel and left her case there."

"Look at her!" I pointed out to him, "She's a color-coding fashionista! No way she'd have made it to a hotel and left looking with hair like THAT."

Sherlock seemed to have a moment of extreme happiness when it looked like a light bulb turned on in his head. "OH!"

"Sherlock?" I asked, surprised that Sherlock had light-bulb-moments. You'd think someone with a brain dexterity as high as his had those in a blue moon.

"What is it Sherlock?" John called from the top of the stairs.

"Serial killers. They're always hard. Have to wait for them to make a mistake."

"We can't just wait!" yelled Lestrade.

"Oh we're done waiting! Look at her, really look at her! Houston, we have a mistake! Get onto Cardiff, find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!" Sherlock responded back while running down the stairs again.

Lestrade muttered exasperatedly, "Oh yeah of course… What mistake?"

And Sherlock, who was already out of sight, came back up just to shout back one word at us.

"PINK!"


	6. Chapter 6: It's My Party

**CHAPTER VI: It's My Party (And I'll Cry if I Want To)**

_It's my party and I'll cry if I want to_  
_Cry if I want to_  
_Cry if I want to_  
_You would cry too if it happened to you_  
_It's my party and I'll cry if I want to_  
_Cry if I want to_  
_Cry if I want to_  
_You would cry too if it happened to you_

* * *

Upon realizing that Sherlock left us, John and I did a quick change out of our decontamination clothes and ran outside looking for him. He was nowhere to be seen. I couldn't believe he'd just abandon us like that. How inconsiderate could he get? John has a limp, and I've never been in this part of London. I'm pretty sure he'd realize by now that not everyone has the time to memorize the "London A-Z."

"He's gone," said Sally, when I walked up to the police tape.

"Sherlock?"

"Yeah he just took off. He does that."

"Is he coming back?"

"Didn't look like it."

"Right…"

John piped in, "Sorry, where are we?"

"Brixton."

"Do you know where I could get a cab? It's just, you know, my leg."

"Uh, try the main road," she suggested while holding up the tape for John and I. "But you two aren't his friends. He doesn't have friends. So who are you?"

"I'm nobody. I just met him," John muttered while going under.

I joined him, "Me neither. We met the other day."

"A bit of advice then: Stay away from that guy."

John raised his eyebrows while I asked "Why?"

"You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything. He likes it, he gets off on it. And you know what? One day for Sherlock won't be enough. One day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there."

"Now that's not true!" I cried, "You make him sound like a maniac, which I know he might be at times. But considering how amazing he is at solving crimes and his superior intelligence, you'd think everyone at Scotland Yard would bow down to him at his entrances! He really ISN'T that bad!"

Sally, apparently talking to me like she's told this to a dozen other potential Sherlock friends, only replied back, "He's a psychopath. Psychopaths get bored. Eventually he might do something that'll hurt you, because he honestly cares about no human being's feelings. Let's say you get hurt from one of his experiments. Then you'll see, he might not feel any guilt for you, he'd only care about what kind of burns and bruises formed on your skin. Just stay away from him, alright?" and she walked away.

"The nerve of some people…" I murmured. Sherlock's not like that. He can't be like that…

"You like him, don't you?" John said suddenly.

"Wh-wh-what? How…?"

He continued walking while I followed him, "In the cab, you blushed when he said he respected you because of your intelligence. You kept on telling him how amazing he was when he was examining Jennifer Wilson's body. You backed up all of his arguments. You just backed him up right now when Sergeant Donovan insulted him behind his back."

Blushing furiously, I whispered "Am I really that obvious?"

John merely shrugged, "Nope. Donovan and Lestrade haven't noticed. Sherlock's too caught up in the case to notice. And me?" he laughed and pointed at his head, "I'm working on getting a 10% higher intelligence than you by observing."

"That's my problem…" I sighed and held the tape for both of us to walk under. "He'd only notice me if I talked about the case."

"He noticed your Facebook picture," he pointed out.

"Yes but I was drunk! What guy wouldn't look at a drunk girl and think… things?"

"If you like, I'll put in a good word for him."

Ecstatically, I hugged and leaned on John in the middle of the road. "Oh really? Thank you John! Thank you thank you thank you THANK YOU! It means so much…"

"Ow ow ow ow! My LEG!"

"Oh sorry…" I muttered, letting go right before a nearby telephone booth started giving off a ring.

John asked, "Are you expecting anyone?"

"Nope. Maybe it's for Donovan or Lestrade?" I suggested, continuing to walk down towards the main street.

* * *

"Right. This'll be hard," I groaned, glancing up and down the busy road and the rushing crowd. There was no way John and I could make it to a cab together in one piece. First of all, we could lose each other in the crowd. Second of all, we weren't the only ones looking for a ride. Other people were running up and down the streets calling for a taxi, so that meant we had some competition. It reminded me of the time when I visited the Philippines for a vacation, I spent nearly two hours in the rain yelling for a cabbie.

John had a light-bulb moment, "Maybe we could split up and cover more ground? When one of us finds a cab we could text each other."

"That's a good idea. We could try that, since I'm out of ideas myself," I agreed. After exchanging numbers, John took the less crowded side of the street and I plunged myself into the crowd.

I yelled as the nearest cab continued on, ignoring me, "Taxi? TAXI!"

The telephone started ringing again, this time at a local restaurant to my left. I found myself nearly opening deli's door before one of the waiters made a go for it. Last second before reaching it, the phone stopped.

"Weird…" I murmured to myself as I turned away. Further down the street, about five minutes later, I passed by another booth that had its telly ringing madly as I got closer. Thinking that this couldn't all be a coincidence and seeing no one else noticing, I picked it up. I didn't know who would be on the other end. It couldn't have been John, because we just exchanged numbers and he could have called me on my cell. Maybe it was Sherlock… No, I HOPED it was Sherlock, "Hello?"

"There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?"

The voice wasn't Sherlock's. Or John's. "Who's this? Who's speaking?"

"Do you see the camera, Ms. Seim?" Right then, exactly where the man behind the phone told me, I saw a camera zoom in on me.

"Um… yeah I see it."

"Watch…" and the camera passed me to look at the road. The voice continued, "There's another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?"

I turned around to see a camera from a building behind me, take a brief close up before looking away to the road.

"And finally," concluded the voice, "at the top of your building to your right." That camera, too, turned away from me and instead took in the view of the cars passing by.

I understood the predicament I was in. Whoever was talking to me on the phone would probably threaten me or shoot me dead. The security cameras were being tilted into the opposite direction away from my location, in order to remove any substantial evidence of an abduction or killing. John wasn't anywhere near me to witness this, and the people's eyewitness accounts aren't always accurate. I'm doomed. "How are you doing this?" I asked nervously.

"Get in the car Ms. Seim. I would make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you," the voice said nonchalantly as a cab pulled up in front of me. A man came out from the front seat and opened the back door for me. I hesitantly hung up on the guy and followed his orders.

* * *

I muttered an awkward "Erm… hello," to the muscular man I was sitting next to in the car, who was busy texting like crazy. He reminded me very much like the club bouncers back in Los Angeles.

"Hi."

"…What's your name then?" I prodded further, hoping to secure a name so I can properly sue the guy later.

The man, still texting, replied, "Uh… Anthony."

"…Is that your real name?"

"Nope," he smiled at me, and then looked back at his phone.

"…Right. I'm Selena," I said. Right after that I realized that I could have lied just like him.

But my awkward companion was still oblivious to the outside world and concentrating on his texts as he said, "Yes I know."

"Any point in asking where I'm going then?" I murmured exasperatedly.

The man smiled once more into his phone, "None at all… Selena."

"Oh. Okay."

* * *

Our car pulled up into what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse, right next to another nearly identical vehicle. There were water leaks all over the floor, pipes decorating the ceiling, gas tanks secured to the side of the walls, you get the picture. Up in front were two men, one was twirling his pink umbrella like a little school girl, and the other was carrying around a walking stick.

_Wait… A walking stick?_

"John!" I yelled as the car pulled to a stop and as I pushed open the door. My guard dog "Anthony" followed me out, probably so as to not let me out of his sight.

"Selena?"

A lady with dark hair, tanned skin, a dark dress, and stilettos came out of the other car. "My boss says I'm suppose to take you home," she said to John. Like my escort, she also appeared to be addicted to texting. Then she looked at me, and then at "Anthony" and then at the car I just came out of. With a bewildered face she looked at my escort and asked, "Anthony?"

"Anthony" meanwhile looked at the lady with the same amount of surprise as he said, "Anthea?"

"I thought I was doing night shifts."

"Well, I thought I was the one doing the night shifts."

The man with the pink umbrella finally spoke up, and scowled saying "You're BOTH doing night shifts. Now if you excuse me Anthea," he growled, "Ms. Seim and I have some business to talk about."


	7. Chapter 7: I Won't Say I'm in Love

**CHAPTER VII: I Won't Say I'm in Love**

[SELENA]  
If there's a prize for rotten judgment  
I guess I've already won that  
No man is worth the aggravation  
That's ancient history, been there, done that!

[MYCROFT AND JOHN]  
Who'd'ya think you're kiddin'  
He's the Earth and heaven to you  
Try to keep it hidden  
Honey, we can see right through you  
Girl, ya can't conceal it  
We know how ya feel and  
Who you're thinking of

[SELENA]  
No chance, no way  
I won't say it, no, no

[MYCROFT AND JOHN]  
You swoon, you sigh  
why deny it, uh-oh

[SELENA]  
It's too cliche  
I won't say I'm in love  
I thought my heart had learned its lesson  
It feels so good when you start out  
My head is screaming get a grip, girl  
Unless you're dying to cry your heart out  
Oh

[MYCROFT AND JOHN]  
You keep on denying  
Who you are and how you're feeling  
Baby, we're not buying  
Hon, we saw ya hit the ceiling  
Face it like a grown-up  
When ya gonna own up  
That ya got, got, got it bad

[SELENA]  
No chance, now way  
I won't say it, no, no

[MYCROFT AND JOHN]  
Give up, give in  
Check the grin you're in love

[SELENA]  
This scene won't play,  
I won't say I'm in love

[MYCROFT AND JOHN]  
You're doin flips read our lips  
You're in love

[SELENA]  
You're way off base  
I won't say it  
Get off my case  
I won't say it

[MYCROFT AND JOHN]  
Girl, don't be proud  
It's O.K. you're in love

[SELENA]  
Oh  
At least out loud,  
I won't say I'm in love

* * *

"Anthea" shrugged and asked John for his address. After giving me a reassuring smile, John climbed into the car, mentioning how he needed to make a quick 'stop.' "Anthony" meanwhile made a quick retreat to our vehicle, while I was left alone with Mr. High-and-Mighty with his pink umbrella. As I slowly walked towards him, the water on the floor splashing all over my flats, I started thinking about how crazy this day got.

First I meet the dashing Sherlock Holmes who, in my opinion, only acknowledges my existence when I talk about the case. Speaking of the "whodunit" case, I'm absolutely caught up in it as Sherlock's third and forth eye. John promised to drop some hints but every girl knows how badly that could end up. He might end up liking me, or he might end up being creeped out. And to make matters worse, some wacko thinks it's alright to abduct me from the street!

I honestly couldn't think of any weirder way to get kidnapped.

I honestly thought that what was waiting for me at the end of the ride, was an old hunchbacked professor with a lazy eye.

Not a forty-something year-old suit-wearing stalker with a pink umbrella.

I honestly thought he reminded me of Mary Poppins.

"Have a seat, Selena," he smiled encouragingly when I reached him.

"You know? I have a CELLPHONE," I emphasized. "I mean, the camera hacking was very clever, but uh… you could just CALL me… or TEXT me… on my CELLPHONE. You were clever enough to mess around with the security system, but you couldn't figure out that I have a PHONE NUMBER?"

But the creepy man just laughed and twirled his pink umbrella. "When one needs to avoid the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discrete hence this place. Why don't you sit down?"

"I don't want to sit down," I growled defiantly.

"You don't seem very afraid."

"You don't seem very frightening. You remind me of a certain nanny who flies around abducting children with her umbrella and her songs of nonsense."

And he just laughed harder. "Ah yes, the sarcasm of the Americans. Sarcasm is by far the lowest form of it, don't you think? Now what is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

"Oh, um… I don't know him. Barely know him, just met him actually. Yesterday I think," I stuttered.

"Hmmm… and since yesterday you've moved in and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

I blushed as I said, "Who are you?"

"An interested party."

"Interested in Sherlock why? I'm guessing you're not friends."

"Oh we've met," he drolled. "How many friends do you think he has? I'm the closest thing to a friend a man like Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."

"And what is that?"

"An enemy, in his mind certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic…"

"Well thank God you're above all that," I groaned exasperatedly as my phone announced to the dark space, "You have one new message."

The man twirled his umbrella again as I read my text. "I hope I'm not distracting you from anything."

_John told me everything._

_Baker Street._

_Come at once if convenient._

_SH_

"No, you're not distracting me at all," I muttered as I stuffed my Blackberry into my pocket. What did Sherlock mean by John telling him "everything"? Unless… John told Sherlock that I liked him! Oh dear god.

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?" pressed my interrogator.

"I don't think that's any of your business."

The man snapped. "Well I think it IS."

"It really ISN'T," I retorted.

"If you do move into…" at which he pulled out his wallet and read aloud from a slip of paper, "221B Baker Street I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way."

"Why?"

"Because you aren't a wealthy young lady, aren't you?"

"In exchange for what?"

"Information," the man whispered almost excitedly. "Nothing indiscrete, nothing you'd feel uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to."

I honestly didn't think this guy had the right to bribe me into Sherlock's business. "Why?"

"I worry about him… constantly…"

"That's nice of you."

"But I would, for various reasons, have my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a… difficult… relationship," he reasoned as my cell phone proceeded to alert me. "You have one new message."

_If inconvenient,_

_Come anyway._

_SH_

I muttered, "I'm not interested," as I stuffed my phone back into my pockets.

"I haven't even mentioned a figure!"

"Yeah? Well don't bother."

"You're very loyal, very quickly," noticed my abductor.

Blushing even more, I exasperatedly told him, "No I'm not. I'm just not interested."

At this the man pulled out his wallet again, and took out a paper that seemed all too familiar to me. Like the image of that paper was wedged forever into the recesses of my brain, but I couldn't put my finger on what was so important about it.

"'Trust issues' it says here."

Oh no. It's my guidance counselor's report back from my college days. Now where did he get that?...

"Could it be that you decided to trust Sherlock Holmes out of all people?" he continued.

"Who says I trust him?"

The man ignored me, "You're very selective of your friends-"

"Are we done?" I growled.

"You tell me," he murmured as I turned around to walk back to my car.

"I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see just how much you care about him that that's not going to happen," he shouted back to me. I stopped in my tracks.

I turned around and glared, "What did you say? About me caring about him?"

"It's quite obvious, isn't it?" the man sighed. "Sherlock could care less about girls unless they somehow showed quiet a bit of wit. My people have seen you accompanying him to a… crime scene, I believe? He needed you, and you were willing to help. Now why did you help? You don't seem like the young lady who could be bothered to waste her time running around town doing odd jobs for free. You needed a flat mate when you made the decision to move in with Mr. Holmes, that's a sign of financial trouble. So maybe you felt some sort of emotional attachment to him? Hmmm?"

I groaned, "Am I that obvious to everyone but him?" I honestly felt like I was in this high school drama show. Where the invisible freshman girl falls in love with the senior football quarterback but their love seems so unnatural, and yet so fantastical, that the boy is the end to a never ending tunnel of teen-crushing.

"Well it was obvious when my cameras caught you defending him when a Sergeant Sally Donovan called him a psychopath," he said while making a sickly grin. "When you're with Sherlock Holmes, it brings you back to your childhood. Arguments nearly every day. But you know what? You loved those arguments, because you had an interest in them. Gave you a chance to fight for what you believed in. You had a war going on, so to speak. Your parents tried suppressing that, but you never gave up. Moving to a foreign country for college was probably your best bet of blowing up their heads like a volcano, but how did they react? 'Oh go along sweetie! Here's the tuition money!' and you never heard from them again, have you? They got tired of your pestering, your arguments, the constant door slamming, the teen sass. They disowned you, albeit unceremoniously. Years later you're in pit financially. You've been bored all these years, and now someone comes around and gives you another battle to win or lose."

"What battle are you talking about?" I muttered slowly.

"Sherlock Holmes gave you two battles. One for his heart, the other for good against evil. Either way, welcome back to the warzone," he whispered. "It's time to join a side, Ms. Seim," and he walked away.

"You have one new message."

"I know I have one new message, GODDMANIT!" I cursed at my phone, stuffing my hand into my pocket. Next thing I saw was "Anthony" walking towards me, still texting.

"I'm to take you home," he said while I looked at my latest text.

_Could be dangerous._

_SH_

The impatient "Anthony" apparently didn't have any time to be wasted as he spoke bluntly, "Your address?"

"221B Baker Street. But I need to stop at my old place for a bit."


	8. Chapter 8: Hold It Against Me

**CHAPTER VIII: Hold It Against Me**

_If I said my heart was beating loud_  
_ If we could escape the crowd somehow_  
_ If I said I want your body now_  
_ Would you hold it against me_?  
_ Cause you feel like paradise_  
_ I need a vacation tonight_  
_ So if I said I want your body now_  
_ Would you hold it against me?

* * *

_

"Ms. Gerner? I'm here to pick up my stuff," I talked into the buzzer at my old apartment complex.

That drolling, sophisticated-rich-girl voice that I always thought was copied off a 40's movie responded, "Selena dahling? Is that you? Don't worry I'll let you in."

"Thanks Ms. G," I said as the black French doors opened for me. Up the elevator and three seconds later, I'm in front of my old flat. With the dull white walls, and the aqua blue and lime green mismatched furniture that came with it, I was glad too move out. I had to sell the majority of the furniture I actually owned to keep me afloat for months, and I was left with only my clothes and basic toiletries. Once I finished stuffing them in an old travel bag I heard a knock and the door opening.

A man with greasy hair and some slightly worn clothes walked in, "Hey? Is anyone in? Saw the light…"

"Oh hi! I'm Selena Seim. Just moving out. Don't worry, I'm planning to leave right now," I introduced myself while grabbing my bag.

The man grinned as he held out his hand to shake, "I'm Jim." There's something odd about him that I can't place…

"Right. So um, you'll be moving in now right? Best be off. I got a cab waiting for me," I nodded as I scurried out the door. "Don't want to waste your time."

"No no, there wasn't any rush," he yelled at me. "I expect I'll be seeing you later?" he continued, but by then I'd have already went down the elevator. However, I did hear him. What does he mean by "seeing me later?" Does he intend on meeting me again? Oh god… did he just ask me out? _That would've been awkward_, I thought to myself exiting the black French doors and getting into my cab.

* * *

"People don't have archenemies in real life," I stated blatantly after I told him about Selena's predicament with our abductor. Most likely he told her the same things he told to me.

"What John? I'm sorry?" he mumbled, meditating with his three nicotine patches on the sofa.

"There are no archenemies in real life. It just doesn't happen."

"Doesn't it? Sounds a bit dull."

I reasoned, "So who did Selena and I meet?"

"What do real people have then? In their 'real' lives?"

"Friends? People the know, people they like, people they don't like. Girlfriends? Boyfriends?"

"As I was saying," droned Sherlock, "boring. Dull."

"Do you have a girlfriend then?"

"No, not really my area."

I persisted, because I promised Selena I'd get through to Sherlock. "Right then. Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way…"

"I know its fine."

"…So you've got a boyfriend?"

"No," he sat up abruptly and glared at me.

"Right… okay… you're unattached… like me… like Selena…Fine. Good."

"John? Um… I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work and while I'm flattered by your interest-"

"NO! I'm not asking… NO. I'm not… I'm just saying… its all fine," I cleared up, taken aback.

"Good," he mumbled, going back to his meditation.

With the awkward silence that followed, I found it even more difficult than I thought it would be to continue the conversation. Sherlock just said that he's "married to his work." So it took me a couple of coughs and throat clearings to ask him, "So what do you think about Selena?"

"What does this have to do with her?"

"Well… she's pretty and good looking. She's your age. She's smart. She's single."

Sherlock looked up at me blankly as I said that, "…And you want me to ask her out? Take her on a date?"

"Yes!" I exclaimed exasperatedly, we were finally getting somewhere. "Now how did you know?"

"You brought up the conversation of boyfriends and girlfriends. Either you were asking me out or Selena wanted you to ask me out for her. Besides, I overheard you two when I was on the rooftop looking out for that pink suitcase. The bit where you said you'd have a word with me? She looked like she was having kittens when you said that."

"…You were on the rooftop?... Oh, never mind that. Are you going to ask her out?"

"No," he replied curtly, shifting slightly on the sofa.

"Why not?"

"Like I said, 'I'm married to my work'."

"But Sherlock," I groaned, "do you realize what you do to every single girl that comes your way? Look at what you did to Molly the other day. You humiliated and ignored her. Now when it comes to Selena, you pay more attention, but only when she talks about the case. She supported you in all your arguments with the police, she helped you examine the body, and you repay her by running off in the middle of the investigation. Selena's smart, and she knows what you're doing to her. Regardless of that, she chooses to admire you. But unlike Molly being bold with the lipstick, Selena's already starting to slink further and further away and is keeping her distance. You've already got one strike going against you, Sherlock."

"I told you I was busy looking for the suitcase," Sherlock muttered, slapping on one more nicotine patch. His brow was beginning to sweat… wait a second…

"You're sweating…"

"And?"

"You're nervous… why?"

"Well of course I'd be nervous with you talking like this."

I raised my eyebrows at him. "You're nervous about me talking about what?"

"Her! Selena!" he yelled exasperatedly, abruptly standing up. "I know about her parents. I know about her upbringing. I know how she and her older sister have a love-hate relationship. But there are things in her life that I can't figure out: things that I may never learn, things that she may never tell me. Do you know that that drives me CRAZY? If I had all the time in the world I would sit her down in front of me and spend it working her out, wanting to know every single thing about her. She's not like Molly. Molly's always yapping away, sometimes I wished she'd have a chat with the wall instead. Selena's like a yoyo; she goes up and down with her periods of silence and talk. Her voice draws you in and makes you interested, but when she's silent her brain starts working until its on fumes. Only reason I've been trying to not show any emotions around Selena is because I've never dealt with something quite like this before. She's the only woman I've every known to think the way she does, the only woman to get me interested, the only woman to be interested in me. Why IS she interested in ME?"

"Well," I started, "she thinks you're downright brilliant."

"Yes but don't women go for the men with abs instead of the ones with a brain?"

"Maybe Selena's different."

"I know she is. That's why I have a hard time acting around her… Why do you think I feel this way?"

"Because you like her." At this Sherlock narrowed his eyes at me. I continued, "You like her because you can relate to her in nearly every way. You're both intelligent, you both don't talk about your families, and you two don't just think in your heads, either. You're both visual learners. You mentioned in the cab that when Selena walked into the Bart's laboratory, she analyzed everything down to the smallest detail. Like what you did when we were at the crime scene."

He fell back onto the sofa again. "John?"

"Yeah?"

"Why are women so simple and complex at the same time?" he asked, slapping on one more nicotine patch onto his other arm and taking off two old ones.

"No idea."

"You make it sound like she's as easy to read as a children's book, while I make it sound like Selena's as hard to understand as an 8-year-old learning calculus," Sherlock pointed out.

"Maybe that's why you should ask her out before it's too late," I mumbled hearing faint footsteps coming up the stairs.

* * *

"Thanks for the ride Anthony," I said when he dropped me off at 221B Baker Street.

Still looking at his phone, dear "Anthony" muttered something inaudible to me before I gave up any hopes on having a decent conversation with him, grabbed my travel bag and ran up the stairs looking for Sherlock and John.

"-Before it's too late." John's voice echoed out the open door.

"Hi you guys. Sorry, I got held up," I nodded at John. Then I looked at Sherlock, who was on the sofa holding one arm up in the air and grabbing at it like it was about to have a muscle spasm. "What are you doing?"

He folded up his sleeves to reveal a couple of nicotine patches on his arm. "Helps me think. Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brainwork."

"Good news for brainwork," John pointed out as I set down my travel bag by the nearest chair and plopped down.

"Ugh, breathing. Breathing is boring."

"Is that… three patches?" I asked as I stared at his arm.

John and Sherlock glanced at each other for a second. "It's a three-patch problem."

"Right…" I murmured. "You texted me?"

"Ah yes. Can I borrow your phone?"

"My phone?"

"Yes, I don't want to use mine. Always a chance my number will be recognized. It's on my website."

"Mrs. Hudson's got a phone," John remembered while I yanked my cell phone out of my jean pocket.

"She does but I tried shouting and she didn't hear me." I handed it to him while he continued, "Selena there's an exquisite Italian restaurant down the corner if you want to go out later."

"Oh? Me? Um… sure. I'd love to." I stuttered.

He just asked me out.

Sherlock Holmes just asked me out.

I felt like that teenage girl inside me is leaping with joy. I mean, LIKE OHMIGOD.

"So is this about the case?" John asked while I was busy trying to ignore the dazed feeling I was starting to get.

"Yes, her case."

"HER case?"

"Her suitcase yes, obviously. The murderer took her suitcase, his first big mistake."

"Okay. He took her case. So?"

My brain cleared up a bit to allow me to answer, "You'd think a man walking around with a pink suitcase would attract a lot of attention, right? Most of the men in the world don't want to be the butt of 'pretty in pink' jokes," I said exasperatedly as I got up and dragged my bag to my room.

"There's no use. We're going to have to risk it…" Sherlock mumbled to himself as he handed my phone to John. "On my desk there's a number. I want you to send a text."

"Why can't Selena text it? It's her phone," he groaned as I came back in the living room.

"You're standing in front of me. She's at the foot of the sofa. Hence, you're closer."

"It's alright Sherlock, I'll send it," I said as I grinned at John and grabbed my phone. Meanwhile, as I was inputting the numbers, the anxious doctor walked over to the window and looked out.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock sat up and looked at John and back at me.

"John and I met a friend of yours. Maybe he's followed me home."

"A friend?"

"Or an enemy."

"Oh… which one?"

I mumbled as I finished up the numbers. "You're archenemy according to him. Do people really have archenemies?"

"Did he offer you money to spy on me?" Sherlock asked slowly. God, how does he know everything?...

"Yes."

"Did you take it?"

John and I replied at the same time, "No."

"Pity. We could have split the fee. Think it through next time."


	9. Chapter 9: The Date

**CHAPTER IX: The Date**

_I go find every receipt to show how you spend my dough  
You wanna go and sell my room and burn up all of my clothes  
How can we make it right  
When we both put up a fit?  
You make me so mad  
It's kind of hard to forgive_

_But when I look into your pretty eyes  
My heart just drops!  
Girl you make me dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb_  
_Dumb be-do-be dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb_  
_I love you so Dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb_  
_Dumb be-do-be dumb_  
_Wh-wh-wh-Why?_

* * *

_I've never known a girl like you before_  
_Now just like in a song from days of yore_  
_Here you come a knockin', knockin' at my door_  
_And I've never met a girl like you before_

* * *

_It's like I've been awakened_  
_Every rule I had you breakin'_  
_It's the risk that I'm takin'_  
_I ain't never gonna shut you out_

_Everywhere I'm looking now_  
_I'm surrounded by your embrace_  
_Baby I can see your halo_  
_You know you're my saving grace_

_You're everything I need and more_  
_It's written all over your face_  
_Baby I can feel your halo_  
_Pray it won't fade away_

* * *

Flipping over the paper to make sure I didn't miss anything, I read on the back "Jennifer Wilson." "Jennifer Wilson?" I asked Sherlock. "Isn't that the dead woman?"

"Yes that's not important. Just enter the number. Have you done it?"

"Yeah."

"These words exactly: What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street. Please come." Sherlock recited.

I looked at him, confused, "Did you black out?"

"What? No. No!" he groaned as he jumped up from the sofa and made off into the kitchen. "Send it quickly. Did you send it?"

As I hit "send" John followed Sherlock as he dragged in a pink suitcase and propped it up on one of the chairs. "T-t-that's…" he stuttered.

Staring at it, I muttered bewilderedly, "The pink lady's case. That's Jennifer Wilson's case."

"Yes obviously," said Sherlock while unzipping it. I looked at John with big bug eyes at about the same time he glanced at me. We looked repeatedly between the suitcase and Sherlock. The suitcase and Sherlock. Realizing our astonishment, he scowled at us. "Oh! And perhaps I should mention: I didn't kill her."

"We never said you did," John replied while I plopped down into a seat next to him as I sighed in relief and exasperation, "After that text you had me send? That would've been a great explanation…"

Sherlock nodded at John. "See? Perfectly logical assumption."

"Do people usually assume you're the murderer?"

"Now and then, yes."

"How did you get this?" I asked.

"By looking."

"Where?"

"The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep the case by accident if it was in the car. Like Selena said, nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention to themselves. Specifically a man, which is statistically more likely," Sherlock explained. "So obviously he felt the need to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn't have taken him five minutes to realize his mistake. I checked every backstreet wide enough for a car near Lauriston Gardens, and any way you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip."

"And the pink? You got all that because you realized that the case would be pink?" John murmured slowly.

"Well it had to be pink. Obviously."

He asked himself, "Well why didn't I think of that?"

"Because you're an idiot."

John and I looked at him sharply when Sherlock defended himself, saying "Don't be like that. Practically everyone is. Now look. Do you see what's missing?"

"She didn't have a cell phone on her, did she?" I asked.

"Precisely. Her phone. Where is her phone? There's no phone on the body, no phone on the case. We know she had one, that was the number you just texted."

Doing my best to follow him, I reasoned "And she wouldn't have left it at home because she's careful about her string of lovers. Right." Then it occurred to me. "Wait… WHY did I just send that text?"

"Well the question is," he explained, "where is her phone now?"

"She could have lost it…" John murmured.

"Or?"

"The murderer. You think the murderer has it?"

Sherlock went into a phase of thinking as he spoke. "Maybe she left it when she left her case. Maybe he took it from her for some reason? Either way, balance of probability says that the murderer has her phone."

"Oh dear God. I just sent a text to a murderer," I grumbled, sinking further and further into the deep and cushiony fabric that was my chair. Meanwhile my phone, still turned on in my hands, started ringing out the instrumental version of "Tainted Love".

Sherlock smiled at me, "Few hours after his last victim. Now he receives a text than can only be from her. If somebody found the phone with a text like that they would ignore it. But the murderer…"

Everyone paused as my phone stopped ringing.

"…would panic," he concluded. Slapping down the cover of the suitcase, he grabbed the blazer of his suit and began buttoning it down. "You coming Selena?"

_Oh right… The date._

"Of course. By the way, you did talk to the police about this, right?"

"Four people are dead. There isn't time to talk to the police."

"So instead you're taking me out on a date?" I raised my eyebrows.

For a second, Sherlock looked amusingly sad as he grumbled "Mrs. Hudson took my skull."

"…I'm basically filling in for your skull?" I muttered, putting on my coat.

"No, no. I'm asking you out because I enjoy your company," he replied. "I think better when I talk out loud. Skull just attracts attention. But relax; you and John are doing fine."

"And as for me," John piped up, grabbed his cane, and walked out the door, "might as well get this week's groceries."

* * *

"Ah thank you Billy," Sherlock said to the usher out front. The Italian restaurant was small, and the décor and building had it looked like it was in business for quite a while. Not many other people were here too, maybe like four or five other couples. It wasn't that difficult to feel self-conscious about my appearance when nearly everybody stopped eating just to look at us.

Taking up the window seat, Sherlock muttered to me "22 Northumberland Street. Keep your eyes on it."

"This is more of a stakeout than a date, isn't it? The murderer's not going to walk in here Sherlock! He'd have to be mad," I said, taking the seat facing him.

"Well, he has killed four people," he reasoned.

A portly waiter walked up to our table, and he seemed to recognize Sherlock guessing by he look of sheer surprise on his face. "Sherlock! Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free! On the house for you and for your date," he exclaimed as he hugged him. "This man got me off a murder charge."

"This is Angelo," Sherlock introduced, "three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, housebreaking."

"He cleared my name."

"I cleared it a bit. Anything happening, opposite?"

"Nothing. But for this man, I'd have gone to prison."

"…You DID go to prison."

Angelo sighed a bit, and then winked at me. "I'll get a candle for the table. It's more romantic."

"You may as well eat. We might have a long wait," he murmured as he pushed his menu to the side. Angelo came back seconds late with a tall, pre-lit pink candle. The flames illuminated every single perfect feature of Sherlock's face, from his gorgeously curled hair to those high cheekbones. It was too bad he just had to drag me along on this not-so-real date.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked, snapping me out of my revere.

Yes, he has officially caught me daydreaming and staring at him. Not exactly attractive, is it? He was still staring out the window, but regardless I felt very embarrassed. "Hmmm? Oh yeah… Sergeant Donovan," I said, thinking of something random.

"What about her?"

"She said you get off on this. You enjoy it," I uttered slowly, trying to concentrate on what was on the menu.

Sherlock smiled slowly. "And I said 'dangerous'. And here you are."

"Right. And about the case," I asked, considering that mentioning it was the only way I knew that would catch his attention. "How exactly did you get the theory that he would show up here?"

"Oh I think he's a brilliant one. Love the brilliant ones, always so desperate to get caught," he said, miraculously taking his eyes off the street and looking at me.

"And why is that?"

"Appreciation! Applause! At long last, the spotlight! The frailty of genius, Selena: It needs an audience."

I nodded my head, thinking of how much I was an audience to Sherlock ever since I first met him.

"This is his hunting ground," he continued. "Right here, in the heart of the city. Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go. Think! Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?" he asked, staring intently at me.

After a period of silent thinking and severe brain racking, I concluded with a "Don't know. Who?"

"Haven't the faintest," Sherlock laid back amused, staring back through the window again. All of a sudden he leaned forward, and muttered "Look across the street. A taxi. Stopped. Nobody getting in, nobody getting out. Why a taxi? Oh that's clever…" he observed, and then Sherlock seemed to second-guess himself. "Is it clever? Why's it clever?"

"That's him?" I asked.

He hissed, "Don't stare."

"Oh but you're staring!"

"We can't both stare," Sherlock whispered, grabbing his coat and running out the door. "Come along."

He just ran off. Sherlock Holmes just ran off on me, AGAIN. Has he done this with any other girl? First, he just goes off willy-nilly on this rooftop escapade after examining Jennifer Wilson's body. Second, he gets the nerve to ask me out the moment I get back from being abducted by some pink-umbrella-carrying maniac. Then we have this really awkward conversation with Angelo, which he barely paid attention to until I bring up the case. Oh, and now he's chasing after this fucking taxi that probably isn't holding the murderer.

_I can't take this anymore_, I thought to myself as I grabbed my jacket and walked the opposite of where Sherlock was going.

Back to 221B Baker Street.

* * *

_Stupid Cupid you're a real mean guy_  
_I'd like to clip your wings so you can't fly_  
_I'm in love and it's a crying shame_  
_And I know that you're the one to blame_  
_Hey hey, set me free_  
_Stupid Cupid stop picking on me_

* * *

_Once I ran to you_  
_Now I'll run from you_  
_This tainted love you've given_  
_I give you all a boy could give you_  
_Take my tears and that's not nearly all_  
_Oh..._  
_Tainted love_  
_Tainted love_

* * *

_You know that type of shit just don't work on me_  
_ Whistling then trying to flirt with me_  
_ Don't take it personally_  
_ Cause we were never in love_

_ It doesn't really matter, who you say you are_  
_ Sing it out the windows, of your car_  
_ Find another girl across the bar_  
_ Cause L-O-V-E's not what this was_


	10. Chapter 10: Disturbia

**CHAPTER X: Disturbia**

_It's a thief in the night that comes and grabs you_  
_It can creep up inside you and consume you_  
_A disease of the mind that can control you_  
_It's too close for comfort_  
_Put on your brake lights you're in the city of wonder_  
_Ain't gon' play nice watch out you might just go under_  
_Better think twice your train of thought will be altered_  
_So if you must falter be wise_  
_Your mind's in disturbia _  
_It's like the darkness is the light_  
_Disturbia_  
_Am I scaring you tonight?_  
_Disturbia_  
_Ain't used to what you like?_  
_Disturbia..._  
_Disturbia..._

* * *

I sat there on my bed, I hadn't bothered changing clothes yet, staring intensely at my laptop. I reactivated my Facebook, replied to unanswered private messages, added my sister and started a "poke war" with her, and declined all friend requests from the rest of family. The simple fact that they requested me blew my mind. I didn't want to be part of the family Empire, couldn't they understand that? Back then I was supposed to be the little undergraduate sister that could care less about the business. The one that was supposed to be a goody-goody two-shoe.

Regardless of how my sister always managed to irritate me beyond comprehension, no matter how much of a constant reminder she was of what my parents wanted me to become, I loved her because she was the only one that really knew me. The only one who I thought was worth protecting when she got on the LAPD's "Most Wanted" list. My parents were careful and clever enough to stay off the radar, but my sister got too addicted to the adrenaline rush that came with being part of the Empire and became sloppy. When my parents refused to bail her out, possibly to teach her a lesson on being careful, I provided the LAPD with a… "distraction."

Sometimes I regret myself for not coming up with another plan, one that wouldn't make ripples in the family business. One that didn't alert everyone of just how much money I could get on my own. One that didn't advertise to all of the rival businesses, that the family Empire's income would increase by millions more every month if I kept on doing what I did. In the family business, I was considered to have untouched talent, and was offered jobs and training left and right. Among the Empire's allies, I was probably both a feared and respected force to be reckoned with. But of course, the business rivals either wanted to bribe me to join their side or kill me.

So after I had enough money to get my sister out of jail, I resolved to buy my way out of the life I forced myself into while she learned her lesson and finished her jobs with less carelessness. My sister, forever grateful, understood how much I wanted to stay out. My parents on the other hand, doing jobs of their own and yet were willing to ignore me but prime my sister for a life of crime, said that if I wanted to be a post-grad at Oxford I could get my ass off the couch and use my newfound skills. Right when I thought it was all over, right when I thought they'd leave me alone and recognize that I had some of the family talents just like my sister, they ask me to hone my abilities and pursue more jobs.

Just ten or fifteen jobs later, I had enough money for three years at Oxford, the travel, and some leftover for cushioning. When I moved there, I didn't plan on returning back, because no doubt they would ask me to get back on the bandwagon or ask about any jobs I did abroad. I got a job at the supermarket, as a cashier. I changed my name. I reverted myself to the normal college kid I was supposed to be, one that preferred partying over studying. And when emotions got high, Mike Stamford became my guidance counselor.

Despite all my depressing thoughts, I smiled at my computer screen, waiting for my MacBook's Photobooth to take a shot of my face so I could change my profile picture. As I changed it, I've realized that I had two identities: a young woman who was willing to take extreme risks for those she loves, and a young woman who wanted to blend in and not stand out. I couldn't help but realize how boring I became over the years. I think I've gone all prim and proper since coming to Britain.

Sherlock managed to wrench out every boring detail from me, but he couldn't figure out the important details of my life in Los Angeles, about how I got the money to pay for Oxford. How do I know he hasn't kept quiet? Because the vibe he gives out when I'm around doesn't say "I-Am-In-The-Same-Room-As-An-Ex-Convict." Because if he did know, I would be at the local police station by now. Because, unlike my sister during the LAPD incident, I'm quick and clever enough to not get caught.

He thinks I'm just a random normal girl. Nothing special going on here. Nope. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zap. Zilch. I was considering the idea of telling him, but obviously since the first date got us nowhere, I decided not to. Not until we get used to each other. Not until I have a place in this flat, other than paying a third of the rent. And you know what? Maybe I shouldn't tell him at all about the industry I was in. I can honestly picture my parents' faces if they found out (and they always do) about an outsider knowing of my involvement in their jobs, their operations, their lives. It'll finally get them to start calling me, but not in a "Hello sweetheart, how was your day?" kind of call.

A chat window from my sister popped up.

**Alejandra Costillo (10:13 PM)**  
Hello sissy. See? I still remember the name you changed to before you left.

**Selena Seim (10:13 PM)**  
Hello.

**Alejandra Costillo (10:14 PM)**  
Long time no chat.

**Selena Seim (10:16 PM)**  
From you and everyone else in the family. Why are you chatting with me? Are you not mad enough to leave me and my pokes alone?

**Alejandra Costillo (10:18 PM)**  
Because I love you Selena, dolly. Speaking of the family, mommy and daddy are doing great. Remodeled the entire house with all that money from their last job.

**Selena Seim (10:18 PM)**  
Good for them. I see you've changed your last name.

**Alejandra Costillo (10:19 PM)**  
I got married. I see you're still single.

**Selena Seim (10:19 PM)**  
Alejandra, as much as I love you: shut up.

**Alejandra Costillo (10:22 PM)**  
Now now, Selena dolly. Don't be so mean to your big sissy. Not when mommy and daddy are in such happy mood over my marriage with Kurt Costillo. Big unification of two major allies, right there.

**Selena Seim (10:25 PM)**  
Now now, Alejandra _mira_. I would never want to upset mommy and daddy. Not when our Empire is being unified with such a big and illegal drug corporation known as the Los Angeles Mafia. Yeah. I'd totally want to burst their bubble.

**Alejandra Costillo (10:27 PM)**  
Still the goody-goody two shoe? Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Selena. How is London?

**Selena Seim (10:27 PM)**  
Good. I'm fine. You didn't answer my question. Why do you want to chat with me?

**Selena Seim (10:32 PM)**  
Still there? It's been five minutes. You've gone quiet.

**Alejandra Costillo (10:32 PM)**  
Come back to LA, Selena.

**Selena Seim (10:34 PM)**  
Why? Only reason you'd want me there would be if it had something to do with the family business.

**Alejandra Costillo (10:34 PM)**  
Mommy and daddy "think" they have made a lot of enemies lately.

**Selena Seim (10:35 PM)**  
I don't think I want to know how or why. Then again, I probably do, considering that they're part of an EMPIRE. I nearly went nuts myself trying to save money for Oxford.

**Alejandra Costillo (10:35 PM)**  
Please just come back. We all need you.

**Selena Seim (10:37 PM)**  
No you don't. How is this problem any different from all the others mommy and daddy went through?

**Selena Seim (10:37 PM)**  
You didn't go to jail again, did you?

**Alejandra Costillo (10:38 PM)**  
NO.

**Selena Seim (10:38 PM)**  
Then I see no reason to get involved in this. Again.

**Alejandra Costillo (10:39 PM)**  
It's complicated.

**Selena Seim (10:39 PM)**  
Well then, uncomplicate it.

**Alejandra Costillo (10:40 PM)**  
Mommy and daddy want an heir. Someone to take over the regime.

**Selena Seim (10:40 PM)**  
Pass. You're the perfect criminal. Take the family business.

**Alejandra Costillo (10:41 PM)**  
Thank you, but no. They're going crazy over the idea of internal mutiny, and want you.

**Selena Seim (10:41 PM)**  
NO.

**Alejandra Costillo (10:46 PM)**  
This is the perfect opportunity for you. You've always been so stubborn. So very stubborn. Mommy and daddy never liked it. They couldn't mold you into the perfect criminal like me. But apparently, stubbornness is a characteristic currently wanted in the industry. This is your chance to prove how badass you can be. Your chance to get un-disowned.

**Selena Seim (10:46 PM)**  
My god you've changed. And no thanks, I'm fine here. Why aren't they offering it to you?

**Alejandra Costillo (10:47 PM)**  
Selena, it's because they want someone who hasn't gotten arrested yet. Just come please.

**Alejandra Costillo (10:52 PM)**  
You've gone quiet. You obviously won't come through a simple "please," so I'll simply have to drag you out of London.

**Selena Seim (10:52 PM)**  
"Drag" me?

**Alejandra Costillo has logged out.**

I sighed and let my weary head all into my hands. I cannot tell Sherlock or John any of this. My past is my past, and I cannot let it interfere with my future. And even though I have no idea how my sister Alejandra is going to "drag me out of London," I'll have to keep on my toes. Anyone who's grown-up in the industry or has been part of a major job with the Empire, knows about how my parents and Alejandra having access to anyone willing to get paid to spy on anybody.

Suddenly, I hear a knock on the door, and then a crash. Closing my laptop and running downstairs, I saw a bunch of policemen running around the flat and overturning chairs and pushing off books from the shelves. "What's going on?" I yelled, just when the familiar face of Detective Inspector Lestrade loomed over to me. This cannot be good.

"This is a drugs bust, Ms. Seim."

* * *

_**Yes I know there hasn't been any real interaction between Selena and Sherlock or John, but I thought I might as well bring up Selena's teenage years as an ex-convict in this chapter since I hinted at it in previous chapters. For sure it's going to play a big role in the upcoming sequel. Right now, this whole story sets up her, her life, and her skills.**_

_**And just out of curiosity: What do you think "the family Empire" is? I already have a set idea, but I really want to surprise you guys. I just want to see if anyone's figured it out. xD And if you don't get it now, it'll be more evident in the sequel.  
**_


	11. Chapter 11: Even Now

**CHAPTER XI: Even Now**

_Even now when I have come so far_  
_ I wonder where you are_  
_ I wonder why it's still so hard without you_  
_ Even now when I come shining through_  
_ I swear I think of you_  
_ And how I wish you knew_  
_ Even now_

* * *

"Wait," I retorted exasperatedly at the turned back of Detective Inspector Lestrade, "what do you mean this is a drugs bust?" I was unfortunately ignored as he started yelling out orders.

"He means exactly what he means, sweetie," said the familiar and nasally voice of Anderson as he casually walked over. "And you know who's under suspicion? Your favorite little psychopath," he sneered.

I grumbled, "It's nice to see you too." You know, it's bad enough I had a horrible first date with Sherlock. Now I have to deal with this guy. Again. Can anyone not sense that I'm not in the mood? "Do us all a favor, Anderson: before you go off on anything else, stuff your head into the microwave."

But before going back to his work, he only grinned even more. "Well look who's acting all feisty today! Let's see how many cases of crack your boyfriend's harboring now, eh?"

Instead of shouting some verbal abuse, I settled on telepathically communicating my agitation to his back. Making a big scene isn't what I wanted to do, especially in front of the police, when they're in arresting-distance. Not to mention that Anderson IS a policeman. Five minutes later, footsteps were heard coming up the stairs.

"Mrs. Hudson! Is anyone in? Lights are on-" said the voice of John. Thank God it wasn't Sherlock. I probably wouldn't be able to handle seeing him seeing me and the whole squad of Scotland Yard at his flat. "-What the bloody hell is THIS?" He hollered when he finally came in.

"John," I said in a small voice, "it's a drugs bust."

"A drugs bust… and what are YOU doing here? Where's Sherlock?" he yelled at me when he realized that I'm the only other flat mate here.

"I ditched him."

He looked at me exasperatedly. "You did WHAT?"

"I ditched him… Now don't look at me like that! He ditched me first!" I explained, completely forgetting that we aren't the only ones at the flat any more. "He ran off on the cab that he thought was driving the murderer to his next destination and left me behind at the restaurant. What other choice did I have? I mean, I regret it, but he didn't look like he was coming back for me!"

John heaved and lowered his voice. "And what do you want me to do now?"

"Nothing, John," I whispered. "You've helped me enough by getting him to ask me out, and that's all I needed. I owe you one. But when he comes back here, what goes down between us, whatever he has to say to me… stay out of it, alright?"

"Alright, fine. And thank you because I'm starting to think getting into this was a bad idea."

"It was a bad idea, and I apologize for it. My main concern right now is how I'm going to deal with him when he gets back," I groaned.

"I can't help you there," John replied. "But maybe you should wait for him outside? Making a scene in here probably isn't the best idea. Anderson and Donovan would never let you forget it."

"Assuming, of course, that Sherlock still lets me live here, and that I'm still involved in his cases as his second pair of eyes… And I have no idea how having a public street fight or yelling contest with him is a much better scene than having it indoors in front of the police. At least they can restrain him. But fine! I'll go down," I mumbled, before dashing down the stairs.

I could have sworn I heard Donovan say loudly, "Good luck? She'll need it…" before I opened the door outside.

* * *

I have been standing outside for thirty minutes. I have been shivering to death for thirty minutes. I have been thinking about how to apologize to Sherlock for thirty minutes. I have been regretting my choice to ditch him for thirty minutes. I have been thinking about just him in general, for thirty minutes. Because you know what? He might have come back for me. He might have returned. But then again, he might have not. He's a "consulting detective". He's completely engrossed into his job. For all I know, I could have been a mere distraction to him, and maybe that's why he ditched me. Regardless of the fact that he told me that I have "10% higher intelligence than the average man" (which I'm starting to doubt considering everything that's happened today), he must have seen me as too normal and too bland. And I've only been too inconsiderate to think until now that with Sherlock Holmes, dates _wouldn't_ be normal.

As you can tell, for the past thirty minutes I have done a lot of contradictory thinking.

I was about to give up and I had already opened the door back to the flat when I heard a loud voice down the street yell "Selena!" It didn't take me long to figure out who it was, since there wouldn't be anyone else who would call out my name and run straight through the door, not caring that passersby will stare.

"Sherlock? What the hell?"

"Lock… the door!" he gasped hanging his coat, and sliding down the wall in exhaustion. Whilst doing so, Sherlock continued, "That taxi cab… the one I chased… not the murderer…"

"Not the murderer?"

"No."

I resisted the urge to tell him I told him so. "So if he wasn't," I asked, "why did you need me to lock the door?"

"His fare… was from Los Angeles… said I was the police…" Sherlock puffed. "When I left… he asked a real policeman about me… I ran… could have followed me…" he muttered as he plopped on the floor. I joined him in an awkward silence.

"I'm sorry," I blurted out loud. "Sherlock? I'm sorry," I repeated again when he didn't answer me. When I looked at him, he seemed to have gone into some sort of a deep trance. I continued talking, because this would probably be my only chance to tell him I'm sorry when he's at a calmer state than usual. "I knew you were using me as a second pairs of eyes. I knew you were taking me out on a stakeout, and not a date. I wanted to believe that you were interested in me, but it seemed like you're not. In fact, the only time you actually would listen to me was when I talked about the dead woman. That's why you left me behind and ran for the cab, and that's why I ditched. Now I'm sorry for doing that to you, Sherlock, but you make me feel like a fifth wheel sometimes. I know you say you think I'm smart and clever and all that, but you're not helping me at all by unintentionally making me feel clueless and confused around you all the time."

It was probably five minutes before Sherlock finally looked back at me, albeit somewhat blankly, and replied, "Don't worry about it Selena. You're not the first one."

"Sherlock, I have no idea how that should make me feel better. And what do you mean I'm not the first? What? So you just randomly stage up girls for a date and then run off willy-"

"-No! I didn't mean it like that! I meant you're not the first girl to leave-"

We would have continued the argument had we not heard a loud crash, like glass breaking, coming from upstairs. I instantly remembered that I forgot to tell Sherlock about Inspector Lestrade's drugs bust upstairs. He looked at me accusingly for one second, like he already knew that I knew, before footsteps were heard and John came down the stairs with Mrs. Hudson popping out of her apartment.

"What the hell was that?"

"It's the police, Mrs. Hudson."

Mrs. Hudson's eyes bulged for a second as she called up to Sherlock while he ran up the stairs, "Sherlock! What have you done?"

"What are you doing?" Sherlock growled at Lestrade. Trying to keep ourselves out of the ensuing cat-fight, John and I proceeded to make ourselves invisible by lurking in the background.

The D.I. retorted, "Well I knew you'd find the case. I'm not stupid."

"You can't just break into my flat."

"Well, you can't withhold evidence. And I didn't break into your flat!"

"Well what do you call this, then?" Sherlock yelled exasperatedly.

"It's a drugs bust!"

"Seriously?" John interrupted. "This guy? A junkie? Have you met him?"

"John…"

He continued, "I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day, and you wouldn't find anything you could call 'recreational'."

Sherlock walked over and glared at him. "John, I think you might want to shut up."

"Yeah, but come on!" I defended, only to have Sherlock stare me down. Then it occurred to me why he would want me to shut up. "No…"

"What?"

"You?" John asked.

"Shut up!" Sherlock muttered, and then turned to Lestrade, "I'm not your sniffer-dog."

"No. Anderson's my sniffer-dog," he replied back, obviously enjoying this.

Anderson, who made himself patrolman of the kitchen since my absence, opened the door and did a little wave at us. "Anderson! What are you doing here on a drugs bust?"

"Oh I volunteered."

"They all did," Lestrade interjected. "They're not strictly speaking on the drugs squad, but they're very keen."

Donovan yelled from the kitchen, "Are these human eyes?"

"Put those back!" Sherlock yelled angrily.

"But they were in the microwave?"

"It's an experiment!"

_Christ, this must be incredibly stressful for him._

_

* * *

_**Ohmigod! I'm so sorry for not updating in nearly a month! So sorry! Don't worry, though. I think I have about one chapter left before I start on the sequel. **

**Last time I asked if you guys had any suspicions of Selena's "family empire." We got the following: assasins, the mafia, drugs, prostitution. Thanks to Moonspun Dragon and Superdani for participating. :) If you still have any guesses, feel free to mention them when you review.**


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